Stories from a Patient's Book

My Children
Are Coming Today

My children are coming today. They mean well. But they
worry.
They think I should have a railing in the hall. A telephone
in the kitchen. They want someone to come in when I
take a bath.
They really don't like my living alone.
Help me to be grateful for their concern. And help them to
understand that I have to do what I can as long as I
can.
They're right when they say there are risks. I might fall. I
might leave the stove on. But there is no challenge, no
possibility of triumph, no real aliveness without risk.
When they were young and climbed trees and rode
bicycles and went away to camp,
I was terrified. But I let them go.
Because to hold them would have hurt them.
Now our roles are reversed. Help them see.
Keep me from being grim or stubborn about it.
But don't let me let them smother me.

Infirmities

In line, in the supermarket,
I stood next to a young woman with a baby.
The baby drooled,
His mother smiled and wiped his mouth with a tissue.
The baby seized the tissue and threw it to the floor.
His mother picked it up, laughing.
He grabbed it again and threw it under our feet.
Again and again.
His mother laughed.
The baby squirmed, disarranged his clothes,
Grew red in the face,
Babbled gibberish.
His mother cuddled him and smiled
Would she be so gentle,
So understanding, so kind,
To an old father, trembling, murmuring,
Wandering in his mind?
Am I? To my friends who falter and fail.
Why do the infirmities of age revolt us?
They seem unnatural.
We're wrong; all living things move gently toward decay.
Is a blasted oak revolting?
Are we afraid? Yes. I draw inwardly away
From my failing friends because I see
Myself in them. I don't drool,
But tomorrow I may. My hands shake
And I don't always catch what people say.
Help us to be as gentle with old people
As we are with infants.
Help us to look past the tic, the tremor, the gray
Failed flesh the way
We look past the baby's helplessness to see
A unique self
Reflecting Your divinity.